


like ponyboy and johnny

by hurricant



Category: Rent - Larson
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M, arguably the funniest i will ever write, dog owner au, rent but with more dogs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-25
Updated: 2016-10-25
Packaged: 2018-08-23 01:27:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8308408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hurricant/pseuds/hurricant
Summary: Instead of murder, Angel steals Evita, the Akita.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know why I wrote this. I didn't really have the time to write this. No one asked for this. For whatever reason, I never really got fucked up over the fact that Angel kills a dog in the show for money (fun fact: in La Boheme, it was a parrot). But here we all are anyway. I want there to be an Act II, but I'm busy as hell, so who knows.
> 
> Warning for characters referring to Angel with "he/his" pronouns when she's dressed in street clothes, before people get to know her.

Existing in wealthy places was a hobby of Angel's: marble floors, crystal chandeliers, sparkling pools, a sun deck on the roof instead of, y'know, a roof. Something about it seemed so charmed, so cute, like a movie set; walking into the Gracie Mews on Christmas Eve of all days made her feel like Eloise at the goddamn plaza.  She wished she'd dressed for the occasion instead scuffed sneakers and a sweatshirt. Carrying a white bucket and drumsticks got her a few looks, for sure, but Mrs. Reinhart, the lady in the limo, certainly knew how how to throw a black look right on back at them. Thin and white-haired, with velvet-lined gloves and lipstick that Angel could tell was expensive, the woman had meant business and nothing else, meaning Angel was going to have a Merry Christmas indeed. 

"I don't care  _what_  you do with that bear of a dog as long as you  _get it out,_ " she said, hushed and glowering, hitting the second-to-top floor when they stepped into the elevator together. Angel could see her reflection in the gold doors. Looking good. 

"A bear of a dog?" asked Angel, shifting her weight back and forth, from her toes to her heels. 

Mrs. Reinhart's nostrils flared, her frown falling deeper. "Have you ever seen an Akita, my boy?"

"Can't say I have."

"They look as though their primary function is to, how should I put this," Mrs. Reinhart  _tut-tut-_ tutted, hands held stiff behind her back, her face contorting with every syllable. "Crush the skulls of small children. And the noise, the noise,  _the noise, the noise._  "

The elevator doors slid open at the sound of a polite chime; Angel's shoulders shook from holding back her laughter. 

"I'm glad you find it amusing," Mrs. Reinhart said, pulling a small ring of keys from her coat pocket as they walked. "But wait until you see this  _monster_. It's colossal, and so easily agitated, I'm amazed she hasn't barked herself or her owners to death." She finally settled on a small, shiny key with a few small numbers engraved on the side, before sliding it into the lock of Room 252. 

"I didn't know landlords were allowed to keep keys for their tenants," said Angel, feigning innocence. 

Mrs. Reinhart didn't bat an eyelash or even blink, keeping a thin hand steady. "Well, it's not that we  _aren't_  allowed to keep keys for our tenants."

"I have to say, I love your style, Mrs. Reinhart."

"And maybe I can develop an appreciation for yours, Angel, if you wouldn't mind getting in there and finishing off that treacherous creature."

And with that, the door cracked open, and Mrs. Reinhart stepped away to slip into her own apartment; when Angel was done, she was welcome to come decorate her Christmas tree for a nice holiday bonus. For now, Angel was left to peer into the abyss of wealth that was the apartment adjacent to one of the wealthiest women in New York. Stepping inside across black and white-checkered tile, Angel thought about a few things she'd like to spend the money on as she took in the aroma and aesthetic of the room. A few big fat meals, said the expensively-filled shoe rack to her left. A nice warm sweater or two, said the blue suede couch and matching chair. Next months' prescription, said the big balcony, overlooking the Upper East Side. 

Along the walls were black and white pictures of a well-dressed black man and a white woman on what looked like their wedding day. He was a sweet sort of handsome, a very wide, genuine smile; she was a reserved beauty, smart but soft. Awww, they looked nice. Angel almost felt bad for what she was gonna have to do- _bark._

Angel's head whipped away from the picture, scanning the apartment upon hearing something that sounded like a big, gruff honk.

_Bark, bark, bark._

Oh, so  _that's_  what it sounded like. Following the cacophony of barking and scratching nails against painted wood, Angel tip-toed towards what was arguably the ominous looking door in the whole apartment and turned the knob. In a flash of noise and fur, Angel's bucket and drumsticks clattered to the floor, and were replaced with the paws and tufts of fur of...of-Angel struggled to dig for a collar.  _Evita._ Her little heart pendant had been engraved as Evita. 

What kind of nonsense were these people up to when they decided to damn their damn Akita, Evita?

Meanwhile, looking erratically grateful to be free of her bedroom prison, Evita proceeded to take a lap around the apartment, leaping over the couch, nearly knocking over the lamp, barking all the way. Angel was left to watch, a grin spreading across her face every time Evita stopped to sniff her or lick her hand or just wag her tail and pant. It was like this dog never got out, or something. Poor thing, kept all by her lonesome, just wanting some attention on Christmas Eve, of all days...

And then, Angel got an idea. A wonderful, awful idea. 

There was a sparkly pink leash hanging just above the shoe rack by the door. 

"Do you mind if I just take her?" asked Angel, once she'd managed to get Evita clipped and ready and out the door to knock on Mrs. Reinhart's door. 

Mrs. Reinhart looked positively repulsed. "What, you want that noisy thing? 

"You said you didn't care what I did with her, right? As long as I got her out of here? I could, y'know, just keep her myself," Angel finished with a smile and a shrug. 

The old woman looked her up and down, trying carefully to find the words to exactly articulate how she felt. "Dogs are expensive."

Angel shrugged. "I make do myself."

Mrs. Reinhart looked Angel up and down once more, reluctant. "I'll pay the difference,” she stated.

* * *

 Collins wasn't sure how long he'd been propped up against the wall, eyes closed and breathing steady, when he felt something warm and slimy lick his palm. New York. 

He didn't know if he even wanted to know. Maybe if he just kept his eyes closed, he would sink into the wall, safe from whatever it was that just _licked_...

"You okay, honey?"

Collins opened his eyes to a massive, panting mouth inches away from his face. Raising his gaze further, oh, there was a rather handsome individual with a look of concern spread across their handsome face. Nice to know his head hadn't been rattled so hard that animals were now speaking to him in bright, sing-song voices.

"I'm afraid so."

"Did they get any money?"

"No, had none to get," Collins smiled; the dog neared closer to his face, licking the tip of his nose now. "Cute dog."

“I think she likes you.”

Collins scoffed lightly, scratching Evita behind the ear. “I think I like her, too. Name?”

“Evita.”

“I meant you.”

The pretty face in front of him kneeled down to meet at eye level, raising a well-crofted eyebrow. “I’m Angel,” he said sweetly.

“Angel, indeed.” Collins hadn’t been to church in a while, but isn’t this how the baby Jesus story started? Wandering in the wilderness when an angel came upon them to spread joy of the good news—

Collins was pulled out of his thought by Evita, barking at him because he’d stopped petting her. “Uh, friends call me Collins,” he sputtered. Angel held out a hand to help him up with, offering to take him back to his place to get cleaned up.

Standing now and walking, arm around the shoulder of a stranger for support, Collins wasn't sure whether this sensation in his skull like they were floating along was a concussion or a bubbling crush. So, he did what he always did in these situations, and started talking, to fill the silence, just to see it was as loaded as he thought it was.

“They purloined my coat," said Collins, after a strange amount of thought. "And missed a goddamn sleeve.”

Angel turned to get Collins at eye contact, laughing “You big on the five-cent words there, dear?”

 _B_ _ark, bark, bark._ Okay, not loaded. Comfortable. Good. This was good news. 

* * *

 "—and so we made like Ponyboy and Johnny and ran off, renegades of the law, our backs to the wind," Angel said, all drama, stopping to scratch an enthralled Evita behind the ear. A drumroll here, a hair flip there. "Today for you, tomorrow for me!" She took a bow to the sounds of shrill barking and thick, laughing applause, setting her drumsticks down beside the wad of cash she’d so humbly acquired from Mrs. Reinhart.

"Didn't Johnny, like, kill a kid or something?" whispered Roger; Mark shrugged, patting Evita on the head awkwardly.

"And that's the whole story, folks, no more, no les-" Angel was abruptly cut off by a slamming car door and an escalating argument outside. Her attention piqued, she took a peak out the window, watching unfold a scene between the resident “honest living” guy and a man Angel recognized vaguely, but wasn’t sure why.

Her three new friends came up behind her, and together groaned at the sight. 

"Who is that, exactly?" asked Angel, racking her brain for familiar faces.

"That's our landlord, Benny. It's a long story, but he's coming to collect the rent, or lack thereof” Mark sighed, as the honest living guy scurried off into the night without a victory and Benny turned to face their building. Suddenly, getting a good look at his face, something clicked.

"Oh shit,” said Angel.

"What’s wrong?” Collins asked, noticing the change of pace.

"We need to hide the dog. Now.”

"But why?”

"She's  _his_  dog."

Collins and Mark seemed to take pause, blinking; Roger snorted and began to cackle, smile something short of wicked. "You stole our landlord’s dog? How the hell? I can't believe you stole our landlord's fucking dog..."

Seeing Benny in the window, Evita began barking, loud and shrill like she was back at the apartment in the Gracie Mews. As if her size wasn’t obvious enough, her volume would be a dead giveaway. How exactly did one hide a bear of a dog?"

“So she's his dog, he can't see her, he's coming up now, so we need to move quick,” said Collins.

“She can hang ten in my room? We can just close the door,” Mark said.   

“It’s as good a plan as any,” Roger shrugged, and snapped his fingers to pull Evita’s attention from the window. “Come here doggy! Come on! Follow me!”

It was a group effort of encircling the dog with high-pitched calls of “Come on, Evita! Come on, girl!” and patting knees and pretending to play a game to get Evita from point A to point B. They did eventually get her there in record time, however, with Roger tossing an old tennis ball that’d been sitting in his closet into the room before abruptly shutting the door, just as they’d heard a rhythmic knock.

“ _Joy to the world, the Lord is come_!” Benny sang, pitchy, but smiling, and not bothering to wait for anyone else to let him in. He gave a small wave; Angel had to acknowledge he was even more handsome in person. “Merry Christmas, gentlemen. Lady,” he said with a nod, removing a tacky pair of silver sunglasses.

Angel waved in return, but it seemed to go unnoticed as the boys got down to business, i.e. arguing about their current state of affairs. Admittedly, much of the Benny’s edgy back to Mark and Roger’s more desperate forth went over her head as she held her breath. It was silly, she knew, but if she didn’t breathe, maybe Evita would continue to be satisfied with that ratty tennis ball and _not make a sound._

“This is beyond ridiculous. It’s extortion! On Christmas!”

Quiet. Quiet still.

“You’re Jewish.”

Good girl Evita, hang in there.

“You’re not.”

Quiet still. Come on, come on.

“Oh please, would you guys just think twice before you poo-poo this idea?”

Almost on cue, a small  _yelp yelp yelp_ could be heard from the back room, and Benny's brow immediately furrowed. Noting the change in expression, Angel immediately began coughing, loudly and sporadically, until Evita had stopped. 

"You okay there, miss?" asked Benny, in a tone bordering on condescending, yet partnered with a dazzling smile.

"Oh yeah, fine, just a compromised immune system and all that," said Angel, watching out of the corner of her vision Mark bite his lower lip, Roger suppress a grin, and Collins’s shoulders begin to wobble.

Benny squinted, starting again, but slow. "Anyway, as I was saying, just stop Maureen’s protest, keep the homeless from getting too rowdy, and you guys will have it made—"

There went Evita again, this time, the whole group jumped to cough and hack together, erratic and almost noticeably fake. They kept the spectacle up until Evita finally stopped. Benny, effectively perturbed, looked like he was about to voice his suspicion before his train of thought was cut off.

"There's a bug going around," Roger said, quickly. "Pretty terrible. Been sick for days. Better go home before you get it too, Benny."

Benny put his hands up in a noncommittal surrender, “You guys’ll see. You’re making a big mistake,” he contended. He turned on his heel to leave, before taking a long look at their makeshift wood burning stove.

“This is still illegal,” he pointed out, looking back them.

“You _made_ it, Benny.”

“Well maybe if this building had _heat_ , asshole.”

Benny rolled his eyes. “Consider it my way, or pack your bags, boys,” he called to them, shoving his sunglasses back up on his nose and his gloved hands into his coat pockets, eventually closing their door with a click. There was a collective sigh of relief upon Benny’s departure. Collins went back to let out Evita, who came sprinting out, tail-wagging, tennis ball close to mutilation.

“Someone’s a little high-strung this evening,” laughed Angel, tenderly retrieving the slobber-covered ball, Evita jumping up to her thighs. Collins, Roger, and Mark replied to her sentiments with a collection of groans, mutterings, and “ _this_ evening? Try every day of his life”; Evita let her tongue roll out of her mouth, breathing loudly. Fishing a treat out of her coat pocket for her new friend, Angel listened to Mark and Roger explain their dilemma to Collins.

"Sounds like that boy could use some Prozac," remarked Angel.

"Or heavy drugs," Roger muttered.

"Or group hugs," emphasized Mark

“Well, we’re off to a meeting at 10. Life support, down at the rec center,” Collins said, clapping large, bandaged hands around two pairs of shoulders. “You guys should come by before the protest.”

“It’s for people coping with life; negative diagnoses are welcome as well,” chimed Angel. “You don’t have to stay too long.”

“I’m actually gonna shove off and see if I can fix Maureen’s sound problems,” said Mark. Collins replied with whipping noises; Mark rolled his tired eyes.

“Roger?”

Pensive and distracted, Roger took a moment to reply. “I’m gonna pass, thanks,” he said, somewhat curt.

“Would you behave?”

“I did say ‘thanks’, instead of ‘fuck no’, so...”

“Don't worry about it, he's fine,” Angel said, taking Roger's hand and folding Evita's leash into his palm. “He can dog sit!” Collins and Mark nearly threw their heads back laughing as the three of them turned to leave; Evita whined a moment before barking.

"Huh?"

"Roger. Responsibly for taking care of a living creature," Collins pondered glibly, taking Angel's hand. "You want Evita back right?"

"Wait, hold on..."

"Oh, she'll be fine," Angel waved her free, gloved hand, nonchalant. "Don't think Life Support would appreciate the new furry guest without a warning, anyway."

Watching the trio pull on their coats, ignoring his interjections, Roger was suddenly very present in the situation. "So what, you guys are just gonna leave it here?" He asked, unsettled.

"That 'it' is a 'she', Roger dear.”

“It doesn’t matter? Wait a—“

“‘It doesn’t matter’? Rude.” said Mark, only half facetious if only to get a rise out of his roommate. Angel laughed; sarcasm was a good look for him, she thought.

“Have fun you crazy kids, try not to cause too much trouble now,” said Collins, with a wave, and he, Angel, and Mark departed with the mental image of Roger, sitting up on the table, frowning down at Evita on the floor, wagging her tail and panting like she made a new friend.

Evita barked and barked again as Angel let the loft door shut behind her with a click.

* * *

 For an instant, his sense of space and placement in the world was totally disheveled, or at least more so than normal; he couldn't hear, he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t think. The instant following, when his senses came back, he immediately noticed one large elephant in the room, or rather, his neighbor from downstairs, and her pretty brown eyes and the way her hands played with the curls on the back of his neck.

Goddamnit.

Pushing her off from him and staggering from the table, Roger was initially panicked. The instant after that, Roger was pretty pissed off

"What the fuck?” He sputtered, loud and ferocious, watching the color drain from Mimi's face as her smile fell. “Who do you think you are?"

"Listen, Roger, wait-" Mimi pleaded.

"There's the door, show yourself out, and take your candle and smack and hair if you would, thanks. I'm not interested, I want you _out_."

"Wait, hold on,” Mimi said again, her tone changing slightly, as though she was stifling a laugh. “Just wait a second,” she giggled, Roger just squinted at her.

"Can that second also be spent walking towards the door, please?" Roger persisted, although it was clear Mimi was only half-listening.

“I'm sorry, but did you have _him_ earlier and I missed it, orrr..." Following Mimi’s pointer finger across the room, Roger’s gaze came to rest on Evita, laying belly-up and tongue rolled out on the floor beside the couch. 

"Uh, 'he's' a 'she', actually,” said Roger, bitter. “And she's not mine, I'm just...watching her."

"Uh-huh.” A grin grew on Mimi’s face, as she glided past him and on towards Evita. Any pretense of seduction and flirtation were completely gone, and instead, Roger watched, dumbfounded, as Mimi became well-acquainted with Evita. 

A few more instants passed before Roger found the words for what exactly he wanted to say about this whole situation besides _‘what the fuck?’_

"Why are you still here?"

"She's so pretty!” replied Mimi, although it was less of an answer to Roger and more of a compliment to the dog. Evita barked in agreement, entirely satisfied as she was getting her belly rubbed.

Roger didn’t know whether he should kick her out or stay or hide or leave or what. It was like he wasn’t even in the room at all. Out of two people and a dog, he was the third wheel. Unbelievable.

Figuring it would be better than standing there awkwardly, Roger grabbed his guitar and shuffled into the back room to be alone. That being said, the walls were thin, and he lost track of how long he spent listening to Mimi laugh and fuss over Evita, tossing the tennis ball for her to retrieve. It wasn't long before the ball hit his door, and Evita came bolting past, nearly knocking herself into it, as far as he could hear. Instead of snatching the ball, visible in the crack beneath the frame, Evita sat and barked and barked, like she knew he was in there, and he needed to come out.

"Listen," Mimi's airy voice sounded deflated, slow and serious. "I'm not gonna, y'know, make you do anything if you don't wanna, but like, it _is_ Christmas Eve. Even your not-dog doesn't want you to be alone. No day but today."

Roger consciously, took that mantra with a grain of salt, but all things considered, she wasn't _wrong_. No. Come on. It felt stupid, he felt stupid for standing up, for walking towards the door, letting it creak open slightly, although Evita pushed her snout in forcefully, opening it a bit more. He paused, knowing she was looking up at him now, as his eyes darted around avoiding eye contact, trying to find his words again.

Roger sighed before settling his thoughts. "Can I make it up to you?" 

"How?"

"Dinner party?"

"That'll do."

* * *

 " _Roger!_ "

A bird's nest of incongruously colored-hair whipped in the direction of Mark's voice, making eye contact with a meek head nod. It really, actually  _was_  Roger. He'd really gone outside, Mark couldn't believe it. He was, at this moment, looking at Roger, standing somewhere that wasn't their apartment, just outside of the performance space, because  _he'd left their apartment._  This was probably what the Christians meant by the whole "Christmas miracle" nonsense. This was great, this was-

 _And_  he'd brought the dog with him. Amazing.

Mark didn't even have to say anything, he just looked down at the happy panting and tail-wagging mass of fur pointedly and back up at Roger once they were within arm's length: why? A few stragglers passed them on the sidewalk, several awwing and cooing over the cheerful Evita; Roger was unimpressed. 

"Don't look at me like that, man," he huffed, fidgeting with Evita’s pink sparkly leash. "What was I supposed to do, just leave her there alone? What if she needed to take a dump? What if she chewed up all our shit?"

"Good thinking, Roger, because everything we own is cool and expensive and the performance space, where Benny will be, is the best place to take Benny's stolen dog, especially when he's already trying to take all the cool and expensive shit we own," said Mark, making Roger turn a new shade of exasperated. "'It' became 'she', I see." Evita barked.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, it was only to prove a point, and then it just stuck, I guess," Roger trailed off. 

"To who?"

Roger grimaced. "This girl who I’m about to totally blow it with. Or maybe already blew it with? I don't know what's happening, honestly..."

"Woah, woah, woah, wait a second," Mark interrupted, perplexed. "There was a girl? There is _currently_ a girl? Since when?"

Roger shrugged, eyes seeming to wander everywhere that wasn’t Mark. "Since tonight..."

"Where'd you meet her?"

"The loft."

"Our loft?" Mark's eyes fell to Evita, who was now being pet by a few college kids. Roger shook his head vehemently.

" _No_ , no, no, listen, it's kind of a long story. I can explain—“

“Roger!” cried a much higher, much sweeter sounding voice than Mark’s own. Pushing through Evita’s new fan club was a girl, with lots of dark, curly hair, maybe a few years younger than Roger and Mark, pretty and vibrant.

“Mark, _this_ is Mimi,” Roger said, enunciating through his teeth ever-so carefully. “She’ll be _dining_ with _us_ tonight.”

Mark’s eyebrows went up into his hairline, shooting Roger a look of “oh, _oh_ ” as he greeted Mimi, who smiled and shook his hand happily, before bending down to greet Evita.

 _Wow_ , mouthed Mark, silent behind Mimi’s back as they started walking around the throws of people, many of them interested in the big fluffy dog at their feet, towards the performance space.

 _Fuck you,_ mouthed Roger, before turning to what seemed like the twentieth person to ooh and aww over the jovial Evita to say, in a damn near opposite character than the dog he walked with, “listen pal, we’re just trying to get through, so if you don’t mind...”

* * *

Benny couldn’t help but notice there were a strange number of dogs at this protest. Big dogs, small dogs, some rather thin, some rather harry. Why that was the first thing he noticed in this entire mess, he had a few ideas, but none of these dogs looked like Evita in the first place, so really it was just his brain and the forces of the universe giving him a shit time.

He and Allison had come home from her brothers’ swarthy Christmas Eve gig early, and he’d been so grateful for it. He was going to slide off his pants, cartwheel into his bed, grab some wine, and ignore everything for the rest of the night. He’d played nice with his snobby and somewhat aggressive brothers-in-law. It was going to be great. Benny earned his Christmas gift to himself this year.

(His father-in-law whispered something in his ear just now, about the content of Maureen’s show, but frankly, Benny was too zoned out to really notice at this point.)

But of course, this was Benny’s life, so something was bound to go very wrong. He was admittedly not disturbed by the fact that someone had broken into his and Allison’s place—it wasn’t the first time something of the sort had ever happened to him and it would not be the last, he was sure. He was a little more concerned by the fact that out of all the nice things he now owned, the thief went for his messy, whiny, loud, bear of a dog and nothing else (Come on, not the art? Not his swanky new suede shoes by the door? Really?). If anything, his wife’s intense emotional response should’ve initiated more than a newer shade of apathy, but frankly, Benny didn’t like Evita. Benny kinda hated Evita. He hated most dogs. It was just a preference.

(This was the Gracie Mew—moo, moooo, goddamnit Maureen—Mews, too, so of course, no one noticed a damn thing. Not even nosy Mrs. Reinhart.)

And of course, he’d been rubbing circles into Allison’s back as she wept and sniffled when his father-in-law called him, asking if he planned on doing anything about this protest tonight (No? It didn’t matter? Let the people bitch and moan because he still had the deed to the lot?). Before Benny could get a word in, his father-in-law happened to casually of course mention _casually_ that he’d been looking over some of the books for the properties he _gave_ Benny, you see. The numbers were a bit off here, Benny, and why had he been getting so many calls about the utilities, Benny, or lack thereof? Now Benny, your father-in-law isn’t going to ask where the money went, just go down to the village and collect the rent you’re due, please? This building needs to pass inspection, Benny, and Benny, these books need to be adjusted, or there was going to be a no-go from all sides in regards to CyberArts. Zilch. Period. Nada. And thus, apathy swung to total anxiety and frustration, which was probably healthy.

(Mark and Roger weren’t even listed as tenants, the books were fucked up, well, because Benny had moved around some of the dough. Listen, that was business, it was for the good of CyberArts, and come on, after everything, they couldn’t do him this one favor?)

Fast forward a few painful hours because apparently, no they could not, and Benny was still fucking awake at 1 AM, listening to Maureen’s talking and screaming and singing, which he did not miss much, thanks. Standing once again in a sea of people, shouting along for the sake of shouting, a sensation he was almost nostalgic for, admittedly, while out of the corner of his eye, a large tuft of yellow dodged out and back into the crowd. That dog kind of did look like Evita, he thought. Granted, if it was her, he’d probably wind up just leaving her here.

And by the looks of it, as the riot proceeded to descending into madness, with punches flying and throws of bodies sprinting towards the nearest exit, Benny was getting pulled to do exactly that.

* * *

"No, no, no, please not tonight, gang,” pleaded the waiter at the door of the Life. There were a series of collective protests from the mismatched-looking group, but the waiter shook his capped head, unfazed. “And no animals allowed!"

"Uh, she's my service dog,” shrugged Roger, sounding more like he was asking a question.

"Oh really? And what service does she provide?" asked the waiter, clearly unmoved and ready to kick them out despite whatever Roger’s follow-up was going to be.

"Uhm..."

Roger shoved his free hand into his pocket, pulling out chunk of cash from the wad Angel had handed off to him earlier and thrusted it into the hands of the waiter. "Merry Christmas.”

Overwhelmed by the sudden possibility of being able to meet his rent this month, the waiter managed to stutter a response, "Uh—We at the Life Cafe are very considerate of those with disabilities of any kind and, uh, feel free to bring your friends!” It was a nice gesture, but some of Maureen’s other, more proactive friends had already begun to push through the door and find seating; Mimi slid her arm around Roger’s.

Bringing up the rear, besides Roger and Mimi and Evita, were a slow-walking Angel and Collins, acting as if they hadn’t just walked straight out of a complete and utter brawl. “Much obliged,” said Collins to the waiter. The waiter was too busy counting his hand of cash.

“And some water for the dog!” called Angel, just before the waiter could scurry to tend to a table of important-looking—oh shit. Benny. “He’s here, too,” Angel said, voice low and soft, before grabbing hold of the three of them and leading the scurry outside to form a huddle. 

“Okay, so we need a game plan,” said Roger, setting a quick pace.

“Why do we need a game plan?” asked Mimi.

“That guy,” Collins pointed just past Mimi’s head inside the café. “That tired-looking guy and his whole entourage of suits.”

“Benny? The landlord?”

“Right, this is his dog.”

Mimi’s nose scrunched up. “He doesn’t have a dog.”

“Not anymore,” laughed Angel, before falling into a whisper. “It’s a long story, _chica_ , sit by me, I’ll tell you everything.”

“Why are we all standing out here in the cold?” Maureen whittled her way in-between Roger and Angel, blowing hot hair into her palms and rubbing them together. Joanne trailed just behind her.

“Benny’s inside and we have his dog and we’re trying to figure out how to get her past him without him noticing because Angel got paid to steal her.”

Maureen’s eyes grew to be as big as the moon, as she let out a small cackle, incredulous but ecstatic. “I’m a little confused, but honestly, I don’t care. This is the best Christmas present I could’ve asked for, actually. I must’ve been extra good this year.” At this, Maureen got some scattered laughter, and she almost frowned.

“You guys could probably just leave, if it’s not worth the trouble,” Joanne stated. Met with a collective choir of mehs, no ways, and “Pookie, they didn’t come all this way not to party” or “The girl’s gotta eat”, she figured she’d try again. “Listen, Maureen can distract them, just sneak behind her and get the pooch under the table. I doubt your landlord will notice, and as long as service is fine with it…”

It was almost easier said than done, but between Collins and Maureen, they’d managed to get Benny going off on enough of a verbal tangent, rattling on about the crowd at the protest. Roger, Mimi, Angel, and Joanne formed something akin to a human wall, tip-toeing side by side, sideways, to the end of the table, where they scrambled to take their seats and shove Evita underneath, surrounding her so that she blending in with a sea of various winter coats scattered beside and on top of her. Before she could begin to bark, Angel reached into her coat and pulled out a drumstick for her to chew on, thinking it would be enough to keep Evita quiet.

“Wait, so why did Muffy—“

“ _Allison_.”

“Excuse me—Allison—miss the show?”

Benny sighed, walking now, as though he was preparing to circle the table. If he came too far... “If you must know, there was a death in the family.”

Roger, suddenly mortified, muttered something like a condolence and sunk back into his seat, almost as fast as Mark ran into the Life, trying to dodge standing figures and tables full of food, taking the seat across from Angel.

“Who died?” asked Angel, and almost immediately regretted it. It was like one of those moments you experience that’s never in the movies or in books, where everyone in the scene are talking at once with no regard to what anyone else is saying, where you’re expected to hear every word and respond to any and all conversation requests simultaneously, despite the varying topics. Because on one hand, she had Benny, who she was trying to be considerate towards because it’s sad when people die, period. On the other hand, there was Mark, in front of her, mouth running a thousand miles a minute, probably trying to catch her up on what she had missed while he’d been separated from the group at the protest. Then, passed almost unseen, was the sudden glare that painted Collins’s face, as though he was spotting something that he wasn’t entirely sure of, but was pissed off all the same. Then of course, down the table, was Mimi and Roger, who respectively looked like they were both doing their best to go entirely unnoticed, and Maureen, who looked like she was doing everything in her power to be nothing other than noticed by every living being in the room. Then there was Joanne, who was mysteriously not present, Maureen’s other friends, who seemed to howl louder with every word, and Benny’s entourage, who seemed to speak without moving their lips.

In other words: it was a lot.

“Angelyou’llneverguesswhathappenedalsoheyquickquestionBenny’sherewhatdidyouguysdowith—“ was verbally pushed out into existence roughly at the same time as “Our Akita—“ but they both ended, conveniently, at the same time.

“Evita,” said Mark and Benny, in unison. They jerked their heads to look at the other for a moment of strain that seemed to last and last.

Benny wound up doing nothing more than shooting Mark a suspicious glare, before turning back around. “Mimi, I’m surprised," he continued, beginning to ramble again, walking away from Angel and Evita’s edge of the table; Mark took a deep breath.

“She’s under the table,” Angel murmured to him, talking through her teeth.

Mark furrowed his brows, attempting to be nonchalant as he stole a glance under the table at Evita laying comfortably, chewing on a drumstick, Mimi’s leopard print faux fur to her left, Maureen’s brown leather trench to her right. Nodding to Angel with a mouthed _good work_ , Mark pulled his own coat off to add to the pile, right on top of Evita.

“Bohemia? Bohemia’s a fallacy in your head,” Benny emphasized. “This is Calcutta. Bohemia is dead.”

This moment, this same moment where everything happens at once, independently of anything else happening at the same time but also managing to ruin whatever was going on also at the exact time and place in existence, wasn’t even Angel’s fault. She was just about to get dragged back into this train wreck, you see. Because as Benny began to waltz back to his table, speech proudly complete, Mark began to stand with a highly caustic retort of his own, taking course to circle round the table. Collins, beside Angel, seemed to have a dawning of realization in regards to the resident bag lady across the room—what it was, she didn’t quite notice, as her vision was a little busy with everything else: Mimi trying to get her attention, Roger getting ready to join Mark for the kill, Maureen standing in her superwoman pose, close to a snow-covered, somewhat exasperated Joanne, and a colorful collection of faces and fabrics and voices filling in the rest of the scene.

What was previously “a lot” was about to become “way too much”, due perhaps largely to her own inability to notice perhaps the most important detail of all: Evita deserting her hiding place under the table to follow Mark’s heels.

And like horses on the track, at different velocities and volumes, everyone in sight seemed to shoot out like they were in a race to the finish line. Maureen stole a kiss from Joanne. Mimi tapped Angel’s shoulder. Collins pointed ferociously at something or someone. The waiter looked overwhelmed, Maureen’s friends looked to overwhelm. Benny’s investors began to grab their coats. Benny noticed Evita.

“That’s my dog!”

“That’s Benny. _The_ Benny.”

“That’s my coat!”

“That’s _his_ service dog, sir.”

“That’s what you get!”

“That’s _not_ her sister, I think.”

“That’s my plate!”

“That black case is for the speakers, don’t forget!”

“ _Wine and beer!_ ”

Woah there. Down. Heel. That was enough for Angel, all at once. No thanks.

Apparently, it was enough for the waiter as well, who gave them all a brisk _shhhh_ before retreating to the safety of the kitchen. Everyone else appeared to be as self-aware of the train wreck they’d caused together as Angel was, and for but a few seconds, there was a calm.

Rubbing his forehead with a ringed hand, Benny sighed. “You know, I don’t even want to know. I’m tired. I want to go home. I hate it, keep it, honestly. One less thing for me to worry about.”

“That ‘it’ is a ‘she’, dear,” Angel piped.

“It doesn’t matter,” spat Benny.

“Rude,” said Roger, and the rest of their table began to erupt with laughter. Benny, drained and despondent, simply tightened his scarf and turned to leave and catch up with his investors, ignoring the attempts of affection from Evita. It took but a few beats for the restaurant to pick up it's lively atmosphere once more.

“Listen, I know we were a fling at best, I’m almost insulted that he’d had a dog all that time and never let me meet her once,” said Mimi, tone hushed but blunt. Angel had replied with something clever and quippy, she was sure, but in the back of her mind it’d really begun to sink in: Evita was someone else’s dog. She’d been a paycheck, but she was someone else’s dog. Maybe Benny hadn’t been the only one threatening homes and relationships this Christmas, after all. Watching Evita weave in between their table of misfits, basking in the attention, Angel knew what she had to do.

Sneaking through the barking and the celebration, Angel grabbed her maneuvered past her restaurant patrons and tables and out of the warmth to see if she could chase down Benny in the cold Christmas morning.

It almost seemed like a failed venture, until Angel caught sight of a bald black head in a big puffy coat. “Benny! Wait up!”

Benny spun to heed her call before turning to tell his companions to keep walking, and as they had begun to walk away with a suspicious glance at her, Angel caught up. A gentle snow started, and small flakes blew in and danced out of the light coming from the street lamp above.

“Hey,” Angel huffed, trying to catch her breathe. “Thanks for letting me keep the dog.”

Benny’s first reaction was to scoff, falling into a laugh that seemed to border between caustic and exhausted. “Let me guess, Mrs. Reinhart sent you in?” he ventured.

“You know it. She wanted Evita dead, actually.”

“Oh, I’m well aware. Should’ve guessed sooner.” Benny yawned.

“She’s a wonderful dog,” Angel offered.

“Yeah? My wife liked to tell me the same thing, I was never convinced.”

It began to snow a little harder, and the Village looked mostly soft and noiseless, like they were in a snow globe. However, police sirens and a distant chorus of _moos_ pulled Angel back to the reality of the Village. "Are you going to tell her what really happened?”

Benny shook his head. “No.”

“Does that bother you at all, that you’d have to lie?” asked Angel. Benny continued his look of almost cynicism, almost fatigue towards her and she knew what his answer would be, even before he shrugged his shoulder and replied in an even tone.

“Not really.”

“You sure you don’t want her back?” Angel offered, twinged with her last bit of guilt. “I mean, Mrs. Reinhart can’t really come take back her money, we can consider it a win-win.”

Benny let out another tired scoff. “No, God no. It’s my one win of the night. Take her if you like her so much, for the love of God.”

Angel laughed with him for that one, and figuring all was well, she offered a gloved hand for Benny to shake. “Thanks again,” Angel said.

“Don’t thank me,” Benny said, droll, although returning her gesture nonetheless, not at all half-hearted. “We’re about to go padlock the door to their building, the lot will be empty come New Year's. This is nothing more than business.”

It was a lie, Angel knew, but she was in no position to press. This whole scene had only been her life for what, a few hours now? She concluded rather suddenly that the best she could do for him was quietly wish for him the opportunity to be less lonely, more fulfilled, and the promise to take good care of Evita.

“Hmph. Merry Christmas,” Angel said.

“Merry Christmas,” replied Benny.

And with that, the pair of them turned to go in their separate ways, and Angel was looking to cross the street, back to the Life and out of the snow globe, when she could hear, just out of reach through the mooing and threats of the riot—‘and be prepared to do a lot of walking!’ Smiling, Angel trudged on.

Upon arriving back into the warm, earthy walls of the Life, it’d appeared that Angel had missed quite a bit: Roger and Mimi were gonna try their hand at being a thing, Maureen and Joanne were no longer a thing, Collins successfully retrieved his old coat after some intense bargaining, but it was still missing a sleeve, so the term “success” was debatable, and Mark got most of it on film, Evita curled up at his feet.

"How's Benny then?" asked Joanne, nursing what looked like her second beer, seated across from Mark. The three of them sat, still and casual among the hustle and bustle of the beaming restaurant and it's roller coaster-riding guests.

"He's not fine himself, I think, but he was pretty willing to push Evita into my hands, so I guess I'm keeping the sweet gal," Angel said, soft, scratching the dog behind her ear, where her head laid against Angel's thigh underneath the table.

"Well, all's well that ends well, I suppose," Mark shrugged. 

"Not so fast there friend: Benny's padlocking the building right now and Maureen's crowd from the show is currently putting up a fight against police by way of moos," Angel snuck a sip from Joanne's bottle as she and Mark attempted to pick their jaws up off of the floor. "Looks like you're going to need somewhere to sleep tonight."

Maureen, pushing past dancing restaurant goers and their festive cloud, seemed to appear out of nowhere at the sound of her name. "Wait, say that one more time!" she exclaimed, before turning to hush everyone around her. "One more time!"

"Uh, you're all going to need somewhere to sleep tonight if you live in Benny's apartment building? He's padlocking the door?" Angel said with a slight grimace.

A moment of pause gave way to assorted interjections of frustration, confusion, and anxiety emitting from the voices and faces of their table, but Maureen being Maureen, she demanded a do-over. "No, no, no, the other thing!"

Angel nodded. "Benny called the cops, and they're trying to sweep the lot, but no one's leaving! They're all sitting there! Mooing!"

What had just been ensemble of ill-well returned to a celebratory mass of cheers and chants, and before they new it, Mark, Joanne, and Angel were being pulled up onto the tables to dance as well. Angel could admit, they were very much in the eye of the hurricane at this moment, and it'd only be a matter of time before they departed the safety of the Life at this impermanent moment to confront the frozen nightmare escalating outside. However, if she'd spent her life worrying about the hurdles ahead, she doubted she'd be here, new friends, new dog, Christmas _not_ alone, at all. Maybe she'd been extra good this year, who knows?

The waiter had been nothing but accommodating, but had to draw the line at Evita leaping up on the table, joining the struggle to get her giant, hairy figure down as she licked his face. Angel reminded herself to tip him well once they left.


End file.
